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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28232637">Yuletied</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/'>Anonymous</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aftercare, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Can be read as a stand-alone one-shot, Christmas, Christmas Cookies, Christmas Smut, Crying During Sex, Dominant Kylo Ren, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Face-fucking with finger, Food, Food Kink, Fuckbuddies, Kylo calls Rey "pet", Kylo feeds Rey Christmas cookies and frosting during sex, Missionary sex lying in fetal position, Naked Female Clothed Male, One Shot, Set in the universe of the fic Tied, Sex sitting on kitchen stool, Smut, Standing Sex, Submissive Rey (Star Wars)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 16:34:08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,302</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28232637</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Kylo. Next Saturday is Christmas Eve.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I know.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Do you still want me to come over?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Always.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You’re not doing anything?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Just you.</em>
</p><p>—</p><p>A stand-alone Christmas spinoff of <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26296822">Tied</a></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Kylo Ren/Rey, Rey/Ben Solo, Rey/Ben Solo | Kylo Ren</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>299</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Anonymous</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Yuletied</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This fic exists in the universe of <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26296822">Tied</a>, but you don’t need to have read that fic to read this one. For those who’ve read Tied and are interested, this fic fits chronologically after Chapter 7.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Kylo. Next Saturday is Christmas Eve.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I know.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Do you still want me to come over?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Always.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You’re not doing anything?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Just you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ugh, what am I going to do with you?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Whatever you want. Wait. Do you not want to come next week?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>No, I can.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You don’t have other plans?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Just tell me if you’re trying to back out, because I can make a date with my dildo if—</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’m not. Come over on Christmas Eve.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’ll come over on Saturday.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Which is Christmas Eve.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But I’m coming over because it’s Saturday, not because it’s Christmas Eve.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You’re fucking irresistible when you’re being a contrarian.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You can’t possibly be turned on right now; your cum is literally still dripping out of me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You’re goddamn right it is.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Oh no, don’t turn into some douche-y bro on me now.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I don’t know what that means, but I’ll be anything you want me to be.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You’re old.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’m going to be a week older when you come over next week. On Christmas Eve.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>On Saturday.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She lets herself in quietly and slips out of her boots. He has no tree, no decorations—his penthouse looks just the same as it has every other Saturday when she’s let herself in quietly. This place of echoes, insulated from seasons.</p><p>One thing is different, though, and it’s waiting for her on the kitchen island. A box of bakery sugar cookies and what looks like every variety of frosting and icing and sprinkles known to man. They stand in orderly rows by height: a class portrait of sugar. She smiles. She wonders if his hands put them here or if he had the concierge do it. She hopes it was him.</p><p>The barstools at the island are leather. The kind of leather that she’d never touched before <em>him.</em> Like silk and skin and butter all melted into the physical sensation of money. Once he bent her over and pressed her face into this leather and picked her up by the hips and fucked her that way. Like it was nothing. Like it was normal, to be held in the air while legs thrashed seven peaks and leather soaked up sobs.</p><p>That was a good Saturday.</p><p>She rolls up her sleeves and washes her hands. It takes her a few tries to find which cabinet holds the plates and which drawer holds the knives. She grabs a few butter knives and sets out two plates: enough to hold a dozen cookies. She slides off the lid of the box to find that the cookies aren’t round. Two candy canes, two reindeer, two snowmen, two sprigs of holly, two gingerbread men, two Christmas trees—a veritable Noah’s ark of Christmas.</p><p>She turns to the decorations and groans internally at the thought of removing all the plastic and foil seals that lie under the lids. But when she pops open the first bottle of sprinkles and the first tub of frosting, they’ve already been peeled off for her. Kylo or the concierge? It doesn’t much matter, except that it does.</p><p>The leather cradles her back as she sets to work.</p><p>The door startles her when it opens, so lost was she in her task. The cookies aren’t bakery-beautiful, but they’re exuberant and colorful and one broke when it slipped out of her hand onto the counter, so she iced the halves and sprinkled sugar pearls on them and ate them purely for quality control.</p><p>“Hello, my pet,” he says, abandoning his briefcase and jacket with the air of a man home from a week-long business trip. He comes over behind her to inspect her work, and she jumps when his lips graze her ear. His arms snake around her midsection, and he would be hugging her to him if not for the stool back between them. “I’m home.”</p><p>She hums in assent, smiling at his impatient, wandering hands that roam the expanse of her sweater.</p><p>“Look what you made for me,” he murmurs, kissing the side of her neck.</p><p>“Do you want one?” she grins.</p><p>“I want to feed you one.” He palms her breast through her sweater. “But I can’t decide if I want you to be naked first.” He runs one of his hands down her arm, following her sweater to her wrist and the back of the hand that holds a frosting-covered knife. She swipes it across a new cookie, and her lips curve as she lets him pretend to help.</p><p>He nuzzles her ear. “Some days I make you wait, hmm, pet? Some days I make you wait until you’re trembling with impatience for my cock, but not today, you sweet thing. My fucking sugar cookie.” His hands dip under her sweater to the skin beneath and push up. She barely has time to set down the cookie and the knife to lift her arms for him so he can tug her sweater off. He doesn’t even fold it today, just drapes it hurriedly over the back of the neighboring stool so his hands can return to the skin that he bared for them.</p><p>They’re firm, demanding, tweaking nipples and clasping her waist. She has to pretend to indulge these moods of his, when he comes home so eager for her that he can’t keep his hands off her, because if she didn’t graciously indulge them then she would openly adore them, and that’s dangerous. So she bites her lip and tuts and giggles and lets his hands reacquaint themselves with the skin they haven’t touched in a whole week.</p><p>She used to think that one day she might get tired of his mouth on her neck: the way he nibbles her nape and peppers the exposed sides with kisses plump with the extravagance of generous lips.</p><p>She doesn’t think that anymore.</p><p>“Kylo,” she whines breathily as one of his hands comes up to encircle her throat. He pins her back against the chair, against him, and he wraps his other forearm around her waist in a leather-hampered embrace.</p><p>“I could fucking eat you up, pet,” he tells her hot in her ear. “What gave you the right to be so goddamn sweet?”</p><p>Her moan is caught halfway between abject need and utter contentment. Where he keeps her most of the time. His hand on her throat doesn’t squeeze, just rests firmly: a weighted blanket. She moans and chirps and plucks at his arms and she doesn’t know what she needs, just that she needs more of it.</p><p>He shushes her gently, and his skin leaves hers and she cries out, bereft, but he’s in front of her, pulling her leggings and underwear down with little regard for practical considerations like the fact that she’s sitting on a stool. She yelps and grabs the seat to hold herself up so he can undress her, and the gleam in his eyes is triumphant as he regards her, naked and needy on his leather.</p><p>His hands are strangely tender when they encircle her knees. He looks down with something like reverence as he spreads her open for him, sliding her ass to the edge of the seat so she slumps against the back. She doesn’t look down, she watches him—because it’s Christmas Eve and his awe is her gift.</p><p>“I need to fuck you now, pet,” he warns, fumbling with his belt and zipper. “But you don’t mind, do you? You can eat Christmas cookies while being fucked, can’t you, sweet thing?” His hand gives his straining cock a few urgent pumps, and he doesn’t even look up at her, just steps forward to align himself with her, to slot himself into the place where he lives every Saturday. She cries out and clutches the edges of her seat, which suddenly feels precarious as her muscles forget how to hold her up in the face of the wonder of her stuffed cunt.</p><p>“You’re okay, pet,” he reassures her through shallow thrusts, “I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”</p><p>He takes both her hands in both of his and kisses them as he fucks her: kisses her knuckles and her palms and buries his face in her cupped hands and all along makes use of the cunt that she brought him, snug and warm and slippery, for a Christmas present.</p><p>His hips nudge her thighs open wider so he can bury himself all the way in to the root, and he lifts his face from her palms and guides her hands down to the place where they’re joined, and he makes her fingertips feel the way her folds spread to let him in. His fingers guide hers through the wet valleys between and outside her labia, and she gasps not so much at the sensation as the newness—the way that he never doesn’t surprise her. The way that he teaches her without words what a marvel she is: she and this body she offers up to him. He fucks her steadily and makes her touch herself, lets her <em>want</em> to touch herself because he wants that too. He wants her fingers to feel just how her body prepares itself to take him—the miracle that is the way she stretches for him, the way her opening grips his cock with tissue as soft as it is strong. He tells her all these things about herself with his hands and hers, and he watches her as she learns them, and she looks down and watches herself be fucked and harbors a secret suspicion somewhere in the shadowy recesses of her mind that no one else will ever satisfy her the way that he does. She’s accidentally ruined.</p><p>He takes his hands away and hers make to follow, but he murmurs, “No, pet, keep touching yourself,” so she does. She rests her head back against the leather stool and raises her knees a little to give him better access and touches herself with both hands and no shame.</p><p>She isn’t entirely aware of his having picked up one of the cookies she’d decorated until it’s nudging her lips, and she opens her mouth instinctively, and he feeds her a bite. She moans, partly in pleasure at the sweetness, partly in complaint at the difficultly of being expected to remember how to chew and swallow while he’s fucking her. Because his hips haven’t paused, not once. He thrusts into her and murmurs encouragement as she chews, and the next time he coaxes her mouth open with his thumb on her chin, it’s for a scoop of icing on his finger. He hooks his finger inside her mouth and lets her lick and suck around him, and then he goes back for more and she takes it all, and she swallows and she gasps and she lets him fuck her mouth with his finger while he fucks her cunt with his cock.</p><p>The hand that isn’t feeding her is grasping her upper arm in a reminder of his promise that he won’t let her fall, and it’s that reassurance that lets her fingers rub her to a dizzying peak that blooms from her clit <em>and</em> from inside, where he is, and he only stops thrusting because she’s squeezing him too tightly to continue, and her legs are quaking and her spine is arching and it’s only his hands that save her—that tether her to earth and to leather. She comes down slowly, with tears in her eyes, and he doesn’t even wait until the flutterings stop to resume his thrusts.</p><p>“Good, pet,” he croons, “just like that.” As if he taught her how to orgasm. She’s almost certain he didn’t, but with his hands on her waist and his cock doing its sweet, wet work inside her, she can’t recall a single orgasm that he didn’t give her.</p><p>“Kylo,” she gasps shakily.</p><p>“Yes, sweetheart?”</p><p>Her cheeks are wet. When did that happen? She touches them with fingertips already sticky from her juices.</p><p>“I know, pet.” He gathers her into his arms, and helps her ankles cross around his back and picks her up with one arm around her back and the other under her rear and he lets her wrap her arms around him and bury her face in his shoulder and he carries her slowly to his bedroom, fucking her gently as he does. He reaches his bed but doesn’t seem to want to put her down, or else she’s the one who doesn’t want to let go of him, but either way, he stands next to the bed and slides her up and down on his cock and kisses her hair. His small bundle of warmth and tears, come to him to be held and fucked.</p><p>She’d like to be able to tell him how much she needs it: being this for him. She’d like to be able to tell him how much he gives her, even when he’s taking. A lifetime and a half of Christmas presents, all rolled up into one <em>him.</em></p><p>“Hey,” he murmurs, kissing her hair. He turns around so he can sit down on the edge of the bed, with her still wrapped around him on his cock and on his lap. He pulls back and smooths her hair from her flushed cheeks. “Are you doing okay, sweetheart?”</p><p>She nods even as the tears roll hot and fast. She leans forward and nuzzles his chin and nips his jaw and pets his chest through his button-down, and she clenches and squirms and tries to spur him on to fuck her, but he doesn’t. Not yet. He lifts her up off his cock and lays her down on her side and he nudges her knees up so she’s all right angles—her torso and her thighs and her calves—like she’s sitting on a chair, but she’s not, she’s in his bed where she’s supposed to be, and he’s climbing on top of her, he’s mounting her, he’s grasping his cock to slide it back in, and it’s tight like this, with her legs squeezed together, but she’s <em>so</em> wet, and he leans over and kisses the side of her ribs as he wheedles her body into letting him in.</p><p>She draws her knees up closer in to her, and she laughs through the tears as he slides all the way home. She can’t do anything in this position but lie there—lie there and lose herself in the agony of bliss he makes for her. She needs less, she needs more, she needs time to stop this Christmas Eve so she can forever lie curled up and laugh and cry and be fucked.</p><p>The twitching and shuddering starts and doesn’t stop, and she used to be able to tell the difference between an orgasm and not an orgasm, but then she met him and learned this state of prolonged, fuzzy, mindless sensuality where his cock takes her and <em>keeps</em> her, suspended for minutes or hours, and surely she’s not continually cumming the whole time, but she’s not <em>not</em> cumming either.</p><p>His hands planted on the bed on either side of her cage her in, and she summons all the strength that’s left in her to turn her head to look up at him so he can see what he’s doing to her, and her eyes forget to cry.</p><p>“Good girl,” he smiles down at her. “Sweet pet.”</p><p>Her vision is glazed and unfocused, and her legs are spasming and her back is twisting, but she can still feel it, when he’s close. He’s least in control in these moments, when his hips take over from his mind and his breathing thickens and stutters, and when he empties into her he looks down and carefully milks the base of his cock with one hand, like he’s trying to squeeze every last drop out to give her. To make sure she’s not left wanting.</p><p>They both breathe through the minute when they return to themselves. When she becomes Rey again and tucks his pet away inside her to save for next week. He collapses heavily beside her, face to face, and she surreptitiously wipes her eyes on the bedsheets as he eases her top leg onto his.</p><p>He smiles and reaches out to stroke her arm, folded in a bundle against her chest. “Hi.”</p><p>She grins tiredly. “Hi.”</p><p>“I guess you didn’t get much of that cookie.”</p><p>“Well, I got about half a tub of frosting, so that made up for it.”</p><p>He smiles down at the finger that fed it to her. “Was it too much?”</p><p>“Nutritionists <em>would</em> probably say that half a tub of frosting is too much at once, yeah—”</p><p>“No. I meant, was it too much? Everything?”</p><p>She smiles and shakes her head. “No,” she says quietly. But he’s close enough that he can hear quiet.</p><p>“Do you want me to go get you a cookie to soak up the frosting?”</p><p>“It doesn’t work that way.”</p><p>“What, are you a nutritionist now?”</p><p>She smirks. “No, I’m just smart.”</p><p>He rubs his thumb in an arc along the skin of her arm. “You’re fucking brilliant.”</p><p>“You don’t have any Christmas decorations,” she accuses.</p><p>“Oh, really?” He pretends to look around in surprise. “I hadn’t noticed.”</p><p>She laughs. “You could have a Christmas tree in every room. Just imagine how much money you could waste.”</p><p>“Wait, now you <em>want</em> me to spend money frivolously? Because I can very easily make that happen. I’ve only eliminated my year-round holiday decorating budget because I knew you wouldn’t approve.”</p><p>She curls her hands in front her mouth and smiles. “Year-round, huh?”</p><p>“Mm, you should see my Arbor Day decorations. It’s a veritable forest in here.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t have pegged you for an Arbor Day enthusiast.”</p><p>“You haven’t pegged me at all, but if that’s something you’re interested in, we can certainly discuss—”</p><p>She groans and rolls her eyes exaggeratedly, but she’s smiling, and so is he, and she’s never had a Christmas Eve like this, but this is how they should be. Every one.</p><p>“You know what I like about you, Kylo?”</p><p>“No, but I’m highly interested in this line of discussion.”</p><p>She looks down at his shirt, because she can look straight in his eyes or be sincere, but she can’t do both. “You never try to buy things for me.”</p><p>She doesn’t look up, but she can hear the small, sad smile in his voice. “It’s only because I know you wouldn’t accept them.”</p><p>“Yeah.” She takes a deep breath. “You know that about me.” She reaches out hesitantly, with a couple false starts, but finally her hand lands on his sleeve. She only leaves it there for a few seconds before she pulls away, but she needed to touch him, and she thinks maybe he needed to be touched. A whole different kind than they fill their Saturday nights with.</p><p>“Yeah,” he says softly.</p><p>She meets his eyes with a brave smile. “So really, you <em>not</em> giving me a Christmas present is my present.”</p><p>He doesn’t smile back. He searches her face for something. She can’t tell if he finds it, and he doesn’t tell her. He just murmurs softly, “Merry Christmas, Rey.”</p><p>They lie there for a while longer in silence before she rolls away and goes to the bathroom and he pulls out clean clothes for her and her silent ritual of leaving begins.</p><p>In the elevator, she only regrets one thing. She should’ve told him he hadn’t <em>bought</em> her a Christmas present. Because he gave her one. Well, two, counting the box of cookies in her bag that are probably smearing their decorations onto each other.</p><p>She checks her phone as the elevator doors open in the lobby. It’s 12:04 a.m. She smiles.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Merry Christmas, Rey.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>And a very Merry Christmas to you! 😊</p></blockquote></div></div>
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